Now that I have your attention, it is safe to say
that if this was still the 50s, marrying a communist either naively or
defiantly was the ultimate act of betrayal in the prevailing paranoia of that
epoch. Adding an act as modern and perverted as a rusty trombone to the
equation, not only requires a recherché connoisseurship and a taste for the
piquant, but the embouchure of a J. J. Johnson as well!
The
editors of 50s tell-all rags such as Whisper, Dare, Suppressed, The Lowdown,
Hush-Hush, Uncensored and Confidential as gossipy and back stabbing as any
before or since never had to concern themselves with the darker recesses of the
human psyche let alone those of the human body so petrified were Americans that
Commie Reds would somehow successfully infiltrate the sulci of this country and
destroy the cherished American way of life, the consuming and making of
garbage.
What
was sensational 60 years ago is a yawn today. Ron Galella’s famous photograph
of Sophia Lauren contemplating the bust of Jayne Mansfield was about as brazen
as it got in the 60’s. Granted, hippies would cavort nude or topless in the
gloaming when the music and the drugs were right, but that behavior was looked
at by academia more from a socio-political perspective than a form of cheap
titillation. Gossip and sensation were still controlled by corporations who
doled it out only as they saw fit making sure that it never affected the bottom
line.
However,
we are 60 years down the road from those frosty times and marrying a communist
does not move the needle of indignation as it once did. The Internet, blogging,
Twitter, Facebook and social networking in general have leveled the playing
field so much that in order to illicit any attention from information’s
gatekeepers outrageous behavior has to be commensurate to the spirit of the
times.
Public
nudity, public drunkenness, serial philandering, nature defying plastic
surgery, in your face, stone cold, narcissistic preening, sex
tape production and distribution are the conduits today as no self respecting
ingénue with a movie deal and zero acting chops would ever think of attempting
to master that craft through study and hard work thereby legitimately advancing
a career when getting out of a limo with her lint trap in full display
completely shorn of evolution’s prefernce does the same service at a fraction
of the cost.
Miley
Cyrus’ recent foray into the world of Richard von Krafft-Ebbing evidenced by
her adumbrated adoration of a very impersonal sexual style, is a great example
to what extremes celebrities will go to never be forgotten. In my view she
didn’t go nearly far enough. Nothing short of sexual congress was what the
crowd deep down really wanted to see. With porn having gone mainstream, when
Dame Judy Dench and Jenna Jameson are mentioned in the same conversation,
what’s the rumpus? Robin Thicke, no shrinking violet himself, might have
obliged Miss Cyrus’ cottage cheese if his manager could guarantee him that by hiding
his salami a few more units would be moved.
When
insignificance, more than money, is intensified by the gargantuan explosion of
a world wide soapbox and any self proclaimed genius/god (Kanye West is just
another genius/god who likes white women with big asses) can declare the truth
to the satisfaction of their lonely disciples, it is no longer any wonder that
now it’s the surface that garners the platitudes.
Quality
and artistry is no longer a consideration in the public discourse. We are more
interested in side boob, baby bumps, box office returns, and red carpet. The
faux has become real. The culture’s soundtrack has officially been auto tuned.
Today,
if you make one porn film you’re automatically a porn star. What happened to
just being a good porn actor? I mean, didn’t it used to be about the work?
